


It Doesn't Usually Start with a Wedding

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Sherlock, Developing Relationship, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts at a wedding can only end up with commitment . Even if one is an alpha and the other a beta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a semi-sequel to [Mycroft's Choice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1286017), but you don't have to read that to understand this.

“You want me, to go with you, to a wedding?” John Watson looked incredulously at Mike Stamford. He’d only been back in London a few weeks, struggling to find a job, find a place for himself. It was like the sharp color and smells of the front line had all been drained away by hospitals and blood, leaving him washed up here on a bench in the park with a cane and a rapidly cooling cup of coffee.

“It’s the wedding of a brother of a friend, which is why I think they invited me. He’s known for being...somewhat difficult.” Mike regarded his coffee and sipped it. “He’s brilliant though. You don’t have to stay for the whole thing.”

John thought about his yawningly empty social calendar. “I suppose I can go. When is it?”

Mike grinned at him. “Tonight. I’ll pick you up at five.”

**

At half past four, John stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie, wondering when life had gone sideways. He’d been perfectly happy in the army, but now... He supposed that wasn’t anyone’s fault but the bastard that had shot him. He didn’t even know what had happened to the person on the other end of that gun. For a moment he heard his name echo in his head, gunfire, grass, dirt, pain. He shook his head and splashed cold water on his face, careful not to muss the tie.

He turned and limped into the main room of the tiny bedsit, taking a seat on the bed and eyeing the pills his therapist had prescribed as he rubbed his shoulder. No matter what biology might suggest, he and Mike had only ever been a couple of friends. Besides, what omega would possibly want a damaged wreck like him for their alpha?

There was the sound of a car out front and John stood, leaning on his cane. Mike was ahead of schedule, no doubt expecting him to be ready early. He smoothed down his hair, still not quite used to the way it was growing out, and locked the door on his way to join him.

The drive to the wedding was quiet. It was one of the reasons he and Mike had always got on so well; he didn’t need to endlessly chatter. He parked in front of one of the nicer chapels in London. John stared, suddenly feeling woefully underdressed. Mike smiled at him. “Don’t worry. Mycroft’s family is fairly well off, but Greg’s quite down to earth.”

“What are they like?” asked John, getting out.

“Mycroft does something in the government. Greg’s a police inspector.” Mike waited for him to get his cane sorted as he stood.

“A police inspector omega?” asked John surprised.

Mike gave one of his small smiles. “No, he’s the alpha.”

John frowned as he followed Mike. “I thought government types were all alphas.”

“The Holmes family is quite unique. You’ll see, I’ll introduce you to Sherlock, that’s Mycroft’s younger brother.” Mike got the door for him and for once John didn’t argue.

Everything just felt fancy as they moved deeper inside. Women in elegant, if understated dresses, men in suits, most of them far nicer than his own. Between the two of them, Mike looked far more comfortable here, moving easily through the crowd. There were raised voices towards one end of the hall and he smiled. “That would be Sherlock. Come on.”

John’s first glimpse of Sherlock consisted of a toss of dark curls and a slight sneer on the beta’s lips. A gray-haired man was leading off some offended party. Mike shook his head slightly. “Sherlock. I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.”

Sherlock turned a penetrating gaze on John. He stood a little straighter under it, meeting his eyes. Wounded or no, he’d never quail under another’s gaze. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” John blinked at the question.

“You’re an alpha, just returned from war. You know Stamford, but you’ve never been intimate despite his being an omega. He’s invited you along because he knows you had nothing better to do tonight and he’s only here to keep me from ‘ruining the wedding’. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” said John. “How...how do you know that?”

Sherlock pointed as he talked. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. The way you walk is alpha. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. The suit fit you a few years ago but you’ve lost weight since then so it hangs loose. Sent home injured but not the knee. That’s psychosomatic, but you were wounded in action.”

John stared up at him and blinked a couple times. He glanced at Mike, who shrugged and shook his head. “Brilliant,” John said, looking back up at Sherlock. No one had ever read him like this; most people barely paid him any mind unless he wanted them to.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to blink. “Really?”

“Yes, quite. Can you do that with anyone?” John’s tongue darted out to lick his lips.

Mike chuckled. “John Watson, this is Sherlock Homes. Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson.”

They stared at each other a long moment. If Sherlock had been omega... A music cue started up and the man blinked. "I'm in the wedding party. I will see you at the reception John Watson."

John watched him go out like hurricane. “Is he always like that?” he asked Mike.

“Most definitely.”

**

The wedding itself was like most others, though John hadn’t been to many. Mycroft didn’t look much like his brother, except perhaps in the piercing eyes and the set of his jaw. He realized the gray-haired man he’d seen earlier was the other groom, Greg Lestrade. Sherlock stood in place as best man, though his body language said he’d rather be anywhere else. John found him watching the brilliant stranger until Sherlock glanced over and caught his eyes. Blushing slightly, John looked back down at his program.

Idiot, he told himself. He didn’t know Sherlock. Most likely they’d have a few drinks at the reception and go their separate ways. Most betas had no use for alphas on a good day, let alone one like him. Tomorrow he’d be back to limping around London, looking for a job, trying to stretch his pension. He certainly didn’t belong with this class of people.

Applause roused him from his thoughts. He looked up to realize he’d missed the end of the ceremony. Mycroft looked uncomfortable, facing friends and family on Greg’s arm, but Greg patted his hand and quickly ushered him out. Sherlock had already vanished.

“The reception is close by, we’ve got an hour or so until that starts,” said Mike, watching him.

“Good,” said John, getting to his feet and stuffing the program in his pocket. He reached for his cane and followed Mike back out of the chapel. “So how do you know Sherlock, exactly?”

Mike smiled. “He does some work at St. Barts.”

John tilted his head. “So not a doctor or anything then?”

“No, not hardly,” Mike laughed. “He does some work for the Yard and uses our labs sometimes.”

“I’d imagine he’s good at it, with how well he read me. I know I couldn’t do that.” John looked around the hall and told himself he was certainly not looking for anyone in particular.

“Consulting detective, he calls himself,” said Mike.

John turned and looked at him. “Really? He can do that?”

“I suppose when you’re that good, they find a way.”

**

To John’s surprise, Sherlock found him first at the reception, offering him a drink. He smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “You were watching me during the wedding. I think you should know I consider myself married to my work.”

John was glad the room was dim as he blushed all over again. Stupid. “It’s all good,” he said aloud. “Mike said you consult for the Yard. Sounds important.”

Sherlock shrugged and sipped his own drink. “You need a roommate. I have a spare room in my flat.”

John blinked. “What?”

“I play violin at all hours. Sometimes I don’t talk for days. I suppose my brother could help you find a job.”

John took a step back. “I’m not some charity case,” he growled.

Sherlock regarded him. “You would pay your share of the rent of course. Could also help me on my cases.”

“What on earth would you need me for?” John resisted the urge to finish off his drink and leave before he made a complete fool of himself.

“You’re a medical doctor. Army doctor at that. Seen plenty of death and destruction. I wouldn’t imagine dead bodies would disturb you all that much.”

John shook his head. “I’ll think about it.”

“221B Baker Street. Tomorrow morning,” said Sherlock. He turned his attention to the crowd. “If she’s not careful she’ll become wife number five,” he muttered. “Of course that may be her goal.”

“Who?” John followed his gaze. “The blonde?”

Sherlock quickly rattled off a deduction about both the blond and the older gentleman she was flirting with. She was beta, he was omega, announced Sherlock, so no need to worry about children. “She wasn’t invited to the wedding, came with her sister.”

“You’re fantastic,” said John again.

Sherlock looked at him. “Do you know you say that out loud?”

“Sorry,” muttered John.

“No, it’s...it’s fine.” Sherlock gave him the barest hint of a smile.

John smiled back, feeling something flutter in his heart. He knew he was a fool. But by God, if Sherlock Holmes wanted him to move in tomorrow, he knew that he would. For the first time in months, the world was beginning to turn a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to themadkatter13 and loveanddeathandartandtaxes


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock ruffled his hair as he looked in the mirror. It was half-seven in the morning, earlier than he usually was about, but he hadn’t given John a specific time. And given that John was a military man, eight in the morning was his most likely time of arrival. The flat was in need of a tidy, but he made some effort at straightening the magazines and making sure the experiments were mostly put up. He turned the kettle on and took one last look around the flat before heading downstairs.

Ridiculous, really. John was an alpha, after all. No doubt he’d find an omega soon enough and settle down. But in the meantime, he could be a great asset to the work. They seemed to have hit it off quite well at the wedding, but that was aided by alcohol and the comfort of having an available social escape. Living with a person was quite another matter.

At precisely eight A.M. John Watson limped up the block. He t looked at the building, then at Sherlock. Putting on a smile, Sherlock offered his hand. “Welcome to Baker Street, John.” He could see the concern in the man’s eyes; no doubt he was calculating the cost of living.

“This is a prime spot,” John said. “Must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.” Sherlock reached for the door.

John blinked. “Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh, no. I ensured it,” Sherlock pulled it open just as Mrs. Hudson was stepping out.

“Sherlock,” she smiled, pulling him down for a hug.

“Mrs. Hudson. This is John Watson, the doctor I told you about. The spare room?”  A tiny bit of worry crept into his tone as the three of them stepped into the entry.

“Oh, of course. If you’ll be needing both rooms.” She smiled at John with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Of course we’ll need two rooms.” John subconsciously adjusted his cane, giving Sherlock something of a suspicious look.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Sherlock gestured up the stairs. “Well, come on up and see the flat, then. I think you’ll be pleased.”

Sherlock got the door as Mrs. Hudson watched them go. “The other room is upstairs, will that be…”

“No,” said John shortly, taking in the mess.

Sherlock felt a spike of fear and worry. Had he misjudged something? He’d only known John a night and already the man was proving hard to manage. He stepped into the kitchen to pour them each a cuppa. Was he making a mistake, bringing him here?

Taking a breath and schooling his features he stepped back into the front room and offered a mug to John. He smiled and took it, sitting automatically in the plaid chair as if it had been made for him. Sherlock took the opposite one and sipped his own tea, watching him. Everything felt as natural and comfortable as it had the night before. Truly an unusual state of affairs; no one just _liked_ Sherlock.

"I have a couple of interviews today," said John, looking at his tea. "But I can probably cover my share of the rent with my pension."

John was just as nervous, Sherlock realized. He relaxed into his chair and crossed his legs. "It's fine. Should I arrange for your things to be moved here?"

"Oh, I don't have much." Bitterness seeped through the edges. "I'll barely disturb your things."

"This is your home as much as mine," said Sherlock, sipping his tea and observing the play of early morning light in the blonde strands of John's hair.

He fiddled with his cane. "I should go," he said quietly, moving to stand. Sherlock froze a moment, uncertain if he should stand as well. John was halfway to the door before he got to his feet, so rapidly that John started. And not leaning on his cane. Interesting.

"I...hope you'll return for supper," said Sherlock hopefully.

John quirked a tiny smile. "I'll see you tonight."

Sherlock watched him go, stepping to the window as he headed for the tube station. When he was gone he moved to his laptop to do some research.

**

John showed up as the day turned to evening. He looked tired, leaning a little more on the cane. Not good results then. He went straightaway to the kettle and Sherlock filed that away for future reference.

He stepped back into the room as he waited for the tea. Sherlock was back in his chair and looked up at him, wondering about the look on his face.

"Aren't you going to ask how it went?" asked John.

"Not well," said Sherlock, hearing a noise and moving towards the window.

"How..." John was cut off by the sound of the door opening and Greg Lestrade taking the stairs two at a time.

"The serial suicides," said Sherlock, turning to face the Inspector.

"Yeah. You know how they don't leave notes? This one did."

Sherlock could barely contain his excitement. This was like Christmas. Serial _suicides._ Greg was still talking but he waved him off. "I'll be along shortly."

Greg sighed and cast a long suffering look at John, who smiled politely, and made his way out. "Didn't he get married yesterday?" asked John when he was gone.

"They'll take a honeymoon when Mycroft goes into heat." Sherlock pulled on his scarf. "They're both far too busy otherwise." As he grabbed his tools he realized John was still in his seat, watching him. "Coming?"

"To what? A crime scene?” John blinked at him. _Was he really so slow_?

“I did tell you I needed an assistant. You’re an army doctor. Seen plenty of injury, violent death?” He watched John closely, seeing his breath shorten and his eyes start to dilate.

“Yes, of course.” He adjusted his cane and got to his feet.

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock smiled slightly, knowing he had John Watson just where he wanted him.

“God yes,” said John, following after as he swept out of the room.

Sherlock hailed a cab and they settled in. Outside, London was growing dark. He noticed the way John shifted his cane. "You have questions."

John kept silent a moment longer before speaking. "Mike said you were a consulting detective. Been working with a Lestrade a long time?"

"A number of years, yes." Sherlock watched his reflection in the glass.

"And we're going to a crime scene. Those suicides they've been reporting the last few months."

"Yup." Sherlock popped the p as he braced himself for harder questions. No one simply accepted him for what he was.

"Deducing, like at the wedding. Only crime scenes. That's brilliant."

Sherlock blinked and looked at him. "That's not what people usually say."

John was smiling at him. For a moment it felt like the air was sucked out of the cab. "What's the usual thing they say?" he asked.

"’Piss off’."

John laughed and it was like Sherlock had discovered a new melody no one had ever heard before. He couldn't help but smile even as the back of his mind reminded him that John was an alpha and this whole arrangement was only temporary. He mentally told those thoughts to piss off.

**

They arrived at the crime scene and were promptly met by a striking woman. "Who's he?"

"He's with me," Sherlock couldn't keep the contempt out of his voice as he tried to brush past her.

She stepped into his path. "Watch out for this one," she warned John.

"And why would I want to do that?" Sherlock was surprised at John's defensive tone as he pushed past her.

"He gets off on this sort of thing. That's why he's here."

"That's enough, Donovan," Lestrade barked at her. "Sherlock, John, come on."

They followed him inside. John put on a suit to avoid contamination. Sherlock, not seeing a point, simply headed for the body. 'Rache' was scratched into the floor.

"German. Revenge," said Anderson in the doorway.

"Yes, thank you for your input." With John and Lestrade safely inside he closed the door in his face and started looking the body over.

"Two minutes," said Lestrade, crossing his arms.

Sherlock quickly looked over the body, launching into a rapid series of deductions about the woman. He glanced up and saw a look of wonder on John's face.

"Fantastic!" exclaimed John when Sherlock stopped for breath.

They shared a long look. "Do you know you say that out loud?" Asked Sherlock, slightly incredulous.

"Sorry," muttered John.

"It's fine," Sherlock looked back down at the body. "Your opinion, Doctor Watson?"

John carefully crouched next to the body, minding his leg. Sherlock noticed he hadn't even been leaning on his cane when standing. Clearly psychosomatic. The doctor quickly confirmed his own thoughts on her manner of death.

"Where is her case?" He asked Lestrade impatiently.

"There wasn't one," he answered as John got back to his feet.

"There has to be." He pointed out the splash marks.

"No case," repeated Lestrade.

"But there _has_ to be." Grumbling, Sherlock darted out the door, ignoring everything else as he focused on where the pink case might have gone.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sher-," Lestrade called after him but he was already gone. He shook his head and waved the rest of his people in to deal with the corpse.

John watched the alpha. Surely he didn't work with Sherlock only because he was his omega's brother. He started to ask a question but the police inspector was already issuing orders. With a sigh he made his way carefully down the stairs.

Donovan was standing outside. "He's gone," she said helpfully. “He does that.”

“Yes, thank you. Where can I catch a cab?” She irritated him already.

“Try the main road.” She lifted the police tape and he limped resolutely for the main road, vaguely aware of a ringing payphone. When he glanced over it stopped.

’ _So,’_ he thought to himself, ’ _Sherlock bloody Holme_ s.’ The man was undoubtedly a bit mad. Maybe more than a bit. But brilliant. He certainly felt drawn to him. No one else could offer a bit of excitement the way Sherlock could. Bit of a pity he was a beta though. _“Married to his work,”_ he’d said, after all.

Shaking his head, John looked around as he reached the main road, but of course there were no cabs in sight. He headed down the street, noticing another phone ringing. It stopped as soon as someone reached for it.

John frowned, tightening his grip on his cane and take slow breaths. Maybe it was nothing. He started walking past another phone when it too started ringing. Annoyed now, John stepped in and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Do you see the security camera to your left?” The man sounded perfectly calm and vaguely familiar.

“Who is this?” John adjusted the phone on his ear.

“Do you see it?” He sounded unruffled.

Rolling his eyes a bit, John looked. The camera seemed to focus on him, then turn away. “What do you want?”

“There will be a car in a moment. Get in.” The line went dead.

John stared at the receiver, then hung it up. Someone was evidently interested in him. No telling if it was in a good or a bad way as a black car pulled up next to the book. Well, at least this way he’d have a ride. He got into the back.

The young woman typing away on her mobile was an omega, and not bad on the eyes. “Is there any point on asking where we’re going?” He said, glancing out the back window and trying to get his bearings.

“No,” she answered, not looking up.

“I’m John, have you got a name?” He turned his attention on her.

“Anthea,” she glanced at him, then went back to her work.

“That your real name?” he gave her a bit of the charming smile that usually worked.

She smiled, not looking up. “No.”

“Ah, of course.” John settled back and adjusted his cane. No telling where this would all lead. But at least he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be somewhere in the bottom of the Thames with a hole in his skull.

They pulled up to a warehouse. Anthea gave him a look and John got out, surprised to find Mycroft standing, leaning on his umbrella, waiting for him. John walked towards him, shaking his head slightly. There was the slightest whiff of Lestrade on top of his omega scent; no doubt they’d spent the night together. But he was all omega, slight curve to his body and a softness he couldn’t fully hide, standing almost casually, watching John approach.

“Perhaps you’d like a chair? Your knee must be bothering you,” he said as John stopped a few feet in front of him and fixed his eyes somewhere just over Mycroft’s left shoulder.

“No, I’m fine. I do have a mobile you know.” John glanced at his unreadable face.

Mycroft straightened and pulled out a small notebook. “I understand you’ve moved in with Sherlock Holmes. What is your connection?”

“We don’t have one,” said John calmly. Though that felt like a lie. There was certainly something there. “I met him yesterday at your wedding.”

“And you were there as a guest of Mike Stamford.” Mycroft glanced at his notes. “Sherlock is a beta, as I am sure you’re well aware.”

“Quite.” John shifted his gaze to meet his eyes. “What is the purpose of this?”

There was a long moment of silence and John was quickly aware the omega wouldn’t be intimidated. He shifted his gaze back over his shoulder, ignoring the slight smile on Mycroft’s face. “You’re not a wealthy man, John Watson. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement.”

John stood a little straighter. HIs phone chirped in his pocket and he pulled out to read the message: _Baker Street. Come at once. If convenient - SH_

He slipped the mobile back into his pocket. Did Mycroft want him to move out? No, he would have phrased it differently. That left one other option.“You want me to spy on him for you? No.”

Mycroft watched him carefully. “Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with, I assure  you. I would simply like to know how he’s doing.

John opened his mouth as the mobile chirped again: _If inconvenient come anyway -SH_

“Am I disturbing you?” asked Mycroft with amusement in his voice.

“No, not at all. And why do you care?” John looked back up at him.

“He is my brother. And I do worry about him. Constantly.”

John studied his face, but there didn’t seem to be much human emotion there. “Sure you do,” he turned to head back for the car.

“I would tell you to stay away, but I can see by your left hand that you will not.”

Blinking, John turned and faced Mycroft again. “What?”

Mycroft stayed where he was. “Your left hand. Let me see it?”

John planted his feet and lifted his hand. He didn’t let anyone bully him around, especially not an omega. With a small sigh, Mycroft hooked the umbrella on his arm and reached for his hand. “Don’t,” growled John, jerking it away.

“Shall we mention your trust issues?” asked Mycroft, watching him.

John put his hand back out and Mycroft took it in both of his. “When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. Your therapist thinks the intermittent tremor is due to post-traumatic stress. She’s got it backwards. You’re under stress now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.”

Jerking his hand back again, John scowled at Mycroft. Smiling, Mycroft stepped back as his phone chirped again. “Anthea will take you home,” he said, turning and walking away.

John watched him go, then pulled out the mobile as he walked to the car. “Take me to Baker Street,” he said, glancing down. _Could be dangerous - SH_. “But I need to make a stop first.”

**

They stopped by the bedsit. John pulled his gun out of the drawer, checked it and easily slid it into the back of his trousers. If there was trouble, he needed to be prepared. _You’re not haunted by the war, you miss it_. If he was perfectly honest, Mycroft had told the truth. He was still trying to figure just who Sherlock Holmes was, but if nothing else, he made him feel useful. Even if it was just moments before he was running off again.

Picking up his cane again he looked at it. Echoes of memory in his head, arguing with the doctor that he did too need it. Walking out into the London drizzle, alone, empty. Adjusting it in his hand he headed back down for the car. Maybe Sherlock didn’t really _need_ him, but at the very least he wanted him, and perhaps that was good enough.

**

Anthea continued to ignore him the rest of the ride back to Baker Street. John gave up trying to talk to her, as the omega remained buried in her phone. “Perhaps I’ll see you around?” said John when they arrived.

“Doubt it,” said Anthea. She looked towards the door to Baker Street. “Goodbye.”

John got out and headed up the stairs, moving cautiously, uncertain what he’d find. He sniffed, but couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary as he pushed the door open.

Sherlock lay on the couch staring up at the ceiling. “Well?” asked John, leaning on his cane again as he came inside, stopping by the sofa and coming to something like parade rest.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, half sitting up, “I need your mobile.”

John blinked. Of all the things he could have said... “What about yours?”

“My number’s on the website. Always a chance it might be recognized. I need you to send a text.”

John stared at him a few moments longer. “This part of the assistant job description? Getting left behind at crime scenes, finding my own way home, and oh, your brother offering me money to spy on you?”

“Did you take it?” Sherlock got up and walked towards the kitchen.

“Money to spy on you? No, why would I do that?” John frowned, temper creeping up his spine.

“We could have split it.” Sherlock gestured at the table. “I need you to text that number, these exact words.”

John stared at him. He took a breath and reached for the tag on the table. Whatever was going on, Sherlock must have some sort of plan. Now was the moment of decision. “Okay, what am I texting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to beltainfaire and themadkatter13

**Author's Note:**

> 'A Study in Pink' [transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html) credit to Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan.
> 
> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


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